


hard goodbye

by petitecreame, rosewrought



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neo Noir, Angst, Gore, Illustrated, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Reaper76 Reverse Big Bang, Violence, drug overdose, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-01 17:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12709779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petitecreame/pseuds/petitecreame, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewrought/pseuds/rosewrought
Summary: In this city, things like this happen all the time. A mugging. A drug deal gone wrong. A murder, plain and simple, motivated by anything from jealousy to that basest, most animalistic human wonder: what’s it like to kill another human being?In Reaper’s experience, it’s usually pretty fucking intoxicating.





	hard goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the 2017 Reaper76 Reverse Big Bang, based on the beautiful comic by [petitecreme](http://petitecreme.tumblr.com/) below. I'm a huge fan of this AU and I feel honoured to have been able to contribute something to it. Writing such an action heavy piece pushed me _way_ out of my comfort zone, but I had so much fun with it!
> 
> I highly recommend you check out more of petitecreme's Neon Noir Overwatch AU [here](https://petitecreme.tumblr.com/tagged/neonwatch%20au)!

It's raining again. Water forms puddles on the dirty pavement, mirrors the flickering neon light above; green here, pink there, a whole sea of yellow in the gutter. It glides down the leather of his coat in rivulets, dribbles off the hem, splashes underfoot. The sound of the rain striking the ground subdues the noise of the city, the hum of traffic and the scream of sirens, raucous shouts and heavy bass. Here, in the dark behind the club, everything else in the whole fucking world disappears. His entire focus narrows to one point, on the scene unfolding in front of him. It's almost like he can breathe again.

Reaper clings to the shadows while the two men converse. _Converse_ being the polite term for it—one is on his knees, hands clasped together in front of his body as if in prayer. He's bleeding from his nose, which is dangerously crooked, and the socket of his eye is already beginning to swell. The other man stands over him, impassive, the muzzle of his gun aimed at the other's bowed head.

In this city, things like this happen all the time. A mugging. A drug deal gone wrong. A murder, plain and simple, motivated by anything from jealousy to that basest, most animalistic human wonder: what's it like to kill another human being?

In Reaper's experience, it's usually pretty fucking intoxicating.

"Please," the man on his knees gasps, snivelling, "Take everything." He reaches to the side, where a backpack lies discarded, but doesn't get far enough to grab it; the man standing over him strikes, wickedly fast, smashing the butt of his handgun into his cheek. Even from his position by the mouth of the alley, Reaper hears the ugly crunch.

The snivelling man howls. The force of the blow knocks him over and he curls up on his side, clutching his face.

"Who's your supplier?" his attacker asks, quietly, as he moves to squat over him. He fists a hand in the man's hair, tugs roughly so he's forced to look up. The man is surprisingly calm, as if he's done this a thousand times before, as if this is muscle memory. Reaper scowls and turns away.

"I-I don't know anything! I have this friend, and he— He set me up with this omnic. I meet her at her apartment. She gives me the drugs and I give her the cash. She's called Chip, I think— I don't know anything about her, or where she gets the drugs, or anything. That's all I know, I swear to fucking God, man. Please let me go."

"The apartment." He sounds so calm. Almost resigned. "Where is it?"

The snivelling man rattles off an address, deep in the heart of the city, one that Reaper recognises, though he can't place it. He swings back around just in time to see the man with the gun stand up again. Level it. Fire.

With a shake of his head, he steps around the body, which crumples pathetically to the ground, to rifle through the bag. Inside, he finds a wad of cash, which he stuffs into his jacket, as well as a plastic bag containing hundreds of tiny lilac pills. He tosses the package aside, lets it fall by the snivelling man's body and walks away, the red '76' emblazoned across his back fading into the darkness. He doesn't look at the body again. Reaper does.

It's completely unrecognisable, skull shattered, brain tissue spilling out onto the pavement. Blood spreads around his head like a halo before it's carried away by the rainwater, emptied into a drain at the mouth of the alley. As it falls over the edge, it gleams: green, pink, yellow.

 

* * *

 

Reaper has been tailing Jack for some time. Or _76_ , as he calls himself now, hellbent on destroying himself and taking everyone down with him. It seems they've both reinvented themselves, cast aside their old lives in favour of a mask and a gun. It's fitting, really, that they've come together like this. Because even from the beginning, something like gravity drew them together, set them in orbit around each other. Something like fate.

They were cops once. Detectives. Partners. They investigated the most horrific crimes the city had to offer. Their clearance rate was unparallelled. They were the _dream team_ , each compensating for the other's flaws with their own strengths—Jack always too headstrong, cooled by Gabriel's rationality, and Gabriel always too insular, drawn out by Jack's patient coaxing. They were so _good_. But of course, good things never last.

That was a very long time ago, but if 76 is anything like Jack Morrison, Reaper knows exactly what he's going to do next: hurtle headfirst towards his goal without any consideration for his safety. Nor, it seems nowadays, for anyone else's.

He's taken particular interest in _Talon_ , it seems. One of the largest underworld organisations in the city, they have their fingers in everything, from drug production, to gun running, to sex trafficking. Conveniently enough, Reaper, too, has his eyes on Talon. Infiltration had been easy; Gabriel moulded himself into an asset that was so valuable they didn't even think to question his motives, his background. He gets his hands dirty for them—in return, they believe in his loyalty. It's a win-win.

The address the dealer had given 76 happens to be one of Talon's drug distribution centres, Reaper finds out later, dishing out its pet project, T, to whoever is stupid enough to swallow it. The drug drives people to fucking madness. Reaper has seen the effects of overuse first hand, has seen people attack their loved ones viciously, or throw themselves into oncoming traffic, or gouge their own fucking eyes out. Talon hadn't intended for T to be so destructive—after all, killing off its user base practically guarantees the failure of the product. But the risks associated with the drug don't seem to have dissuaded anyone. If anything, people are curious to see what's worth dying over.

Reaper doesn't know what Jack wants with Talon, nor why he's chosen _them_ over any of the other syndicates in the city. He can guess; Detective Jack Morrison was always so _obsessed_ with the idea of making a difference in the world, with poetic justice, with the triumph of good over evil. Gabriel was a little less idealistic. He knew just how corrupt the entire system was, beating down the weak in favour of the powerful. Jack never wanted to believe that was true.

But if Jack has gone rogue, is this really about his boy scout morals? If he's willing to gun down a kid on the street, a kid who is _begging for his life_ , is this really about ridding the world of the scourge of Talon, of evil? Reaper doesn't know. He doesn't know what's happened to Jack, to that bright, visionary man he so desperately loved.

_Loves._

 

* * *

 

It's almost a week later when Reaper gets the call.

_Someone has broken into the distribution centre on 6th Street. They have been detained, but you are required to attend the scene and interrogate the perpetrator. Get there ASAP._

He should have been watching 76, so he could have been there when it happened, but after several long nights' surveillance, he'd started to think that he _wasn't_ going to hit the apartment building. He _should_ have been there, because even after all this time, Reaper knows Jack, maybe better than he even knows himself.

Maybe 76 had known he had a tail. Maybe he just had other matters to attend to. Either way, the outcome is the same.

Reaper makes his way across town as quickly as he can, chest tight with anxiety. If 76 had been caught, it means that he had either underestimated the security assigned to the distribution centre or he had gotten sloppy. They aren't going to let him get off easy; 76 has been a thorn in Talon's side for _months_ , taking out influential associates and disrupting their production of T. If he's going to get 76 out of there alive, he's going to have to think fast. Maybe he can convince them that Ogundimu wants to detain 76 for further investigation. Maybe Ogundimu wants to kill 76 himself. Reaper just hopes that he hasn't already told them otherwise.

At the apartment block, Reaper goes to input the security code his contact had given him, but the security system has been disabled and the door swings open. He doesn't linger to find out _how_ 76 managed that—as far as Reaper knows, hacking isn't a part of Jack's skill set—instead, making a beeline straight for the elevator. He punches the call button and waits.

He's headed for the twelfth floor. Talon has bought out the entire level and outfitted the apartments with drug labs and hidden caches for money and weapons. It isn't the only such distribution outfit in the city; Talon has hidden itself everywhere, needling its way into the community like a parasite. Reaper's not sure what 76 wants here, but if he's intent on destroying Talon's operation, there is much more work to do.

The lift takes a lifetime to arrive. Reaper grows impatient and heads for the stairwell instead, nestled in an alcove behind the elevator shaft. He takes the stairs two at a time.

When he reaches the twelfth floor, he's breathless. The climb has only heightened his anxiety, given his mind an opportunity to ruminate over what he's going to find and how he's going to get 76 out, and he struggles to catch his breath. He throws open the emergency exit and stops dead in his tracks.

The hallway is a bloodbath. There are bodies littered all throughout the corridor, their attacker obviously having taken them by surprise. There is a man in front of the lift doors with his throat cut from ear to ear, and an omnic lies in one of the doorways, its torso smashed open, wires and nodules spilling over like guts.

Only one of the apartment doors is open, the one where the trashed omnic lies, and Reaper steps cautiously over it and inside. A living room lies beyond, sparsely furnished with an ugly pink sofa and a card table. Tiny packages of T line the low set table, halfway through being packed. A man is slumped on the sofa, his firearm lying on the floor. There's a gaping wound in the side of the man's buzzed scalp, blood oozing down his neck.

Reaper surveys the rest of the apartment. There are two openings to his left, one leading to a bedroom and the other to a bathroom. On his right is another door, practically thrown off its hinges. He heads towards that one.

This door connects this apartment with the next; it opens onto a makeshift drug lab fashioned out of the bathroom. It's dark, with only a wedge of yellow seeping in from the room adjacent. Reaper has to manoeuvrer around a bench piled high with bottles of chemicals that takes up most of the space in the room.

The next room is empty too, devoid of anything but spent shell casings and bloody footprints. He follows the trail 76 has left him to the corner, where voices filter through a doorway adjoining to the next apartment. He can't make out what they're discussing, so he slinks closer.

There is a cluster of people inside, a few men and women and an omnic. 76 is kneeling on the ground, clutching at his side. In the harsh fluorescent light, Reaper can see blood seeping between his fingers. He's hunched over in pain.

The omnic looms over him and Reaper immediately recognises her as Chip, the one the dealer in the alley had named. From what Reaper has gathered since, she runs the whole operation here, and whilst there are plenty of others like her all over the city, Chip is known for her savagery when it comes to _fixing problems._

Right now, 76 is a pretty fucking big problem.

"You're here."

Chip doesn't look at him, but the others do, startled by his sudden presence. Reaper doesn't say anything. He's evaluating the situation, examining each person in turn and trying to determine how he's going to manage to get Jack out of here _alive_ , especially now that he's badly injured. There are a half dozen goons in total, including Chip herself, but there is no doubt more scattered throughout the other apartments on this floor, going about their business now that the threat has been neutralised. Reaper is fast, but he's not that fast. He needs to find another way.

"You don't have long," Chip continues, coldly. "Unfortunately, our guest has taken quite an alarming amount of T. I expect you will have about five minutes before it begins to affect him."

No.

He's too late.

_He's too fucking late._

Chip is infamous for her brutal executions, for exactly this—forcing her victims to take lethal doses of the drug to ensure an agonising death. Reaper should have been on 76 this whole time, he never should have let him out of his sight. And now he's too late.

His fingers twitch; he almost draws his sidearm right then and there, but hesitates at the last second. Maybe he can get Jack to a hospital in time? But they will still have to fight their way out, it'll take too long. By the time he takes out the guards, let alone carries Jack all the way there, he will be long dead.

He takes a deep breath. Thinks.

"I need privacy," he says calmly, and one of the other men in the room scoffs. It's not an unreasonable request; 76 might have sensitive information that even Chip may not be authorised to know. But even so, there is a long stretch of agitated silence.

And then Chip is sighing, waving a dismissive hand at her cronies. "Very well," she says, and though she doesn't sound happy about it, she turns and exits the apartment. Her people follow behind.

On the ground, 76 in gazing unerringly at the shag carpet. Reaper steps towards him, careful, surveying the damage. His mask has been removed and his face is bruised and swollen. There is another wound to his shoulder, which is hunched awkwardly. He doesn't look up at Reaper, doesn't even acknowledge his presence. He just sits there, clutching his side in some feeble attempt to stem the bleeding.

He isn't scared, Reaper realises. He _knows_ what a scared Jack Morrison looks like, and even if every other scrap of that man has been beaten out of 76, fear is something that never goes away. If he was afraid, Jack would sneer, curse at his captors, throw around big threats that he may or may not be able to carry out. But sitting here now, 76 is quiet. Almost as though he's resigned to his fate, just like in the alley a week ago.

_He should have been here sooner._

Hesitantly, Reaper kneels in front of him, but it's not until he reaches out—though for what, he's not sure—that 76 speaks.

"Don't fucking touch me."

It's a stinging blow, though he shouldn't expect anything else from him. His hand falls and he draws back, as if scorched.

He wants to take off his mask, to show Jack that it's him, it's Gabriel, he's alive and he's here and he's going to look after him. But he doesn't. He can't bring himself to. Not like this.

Instead, he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"What?"

Reaper gets to his feet slowly, watching as 76 slumps further. He turns away. He walks through the door after Chip and her people.

He has work to do.

 

* * *

 

They don't hear him approach.

Reaper's step is light and he lingers in the shadows that cling to the walls, shotguns in hand. Chip and the others have moved into the next apartment, and they mill around in the living room, talking quietly. Excitement ripples through the air. _They_ were able to outwit 76, the masked vigilante who has been causing Talon so much grief over the past few months. Surely they would be rewarded, perhaps promoted or moved to another, more luxurious location. After all, the price on 76's head is steep.

Chip remains silent, observing her colleagues with detached interest.

Beneath the bone-white mask, Reaper's lip is curled in a snarl. White hot fury courses through him. He takes a deep breath through gritted teeth, then Reaper hefts his shotguns and charges through the open doorway.

His guns are fired before his targets even realise he's there. The first blast hits one of the men directly, pellets shearing through his torso. He's knocked off balance and stumbles backwards before his hands come up to clutch at his chest and he sinks to his knees. Blood pours out of the wounds, flooding his shirt and spilling onto the floor. He collapses on the ground.

The second shot goes awry and the ceiling explodes, plaster showering down above them.

There's a cry, though Reaper can't tell who it comes from. The others scrabble for their weapons, reaching into jackets and grasping at belts. But Reaper has the upper hand, having taken them by surprise; he fells another victim before their first shot is even fired.

He doesn't get to pull the trigger a third time. Someone's pistol discharges, once, twice, thrice, and the bullets strike him squarely in the chest. Breath punched out of him, Reaper crumples to the floor.

Everything falls quiet as quickly as it had started. The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead is loud in Reaper's ears as he tries to remember how to breathe. Everything hurts, and when he lifts himself onto his hands and knees, his arms give out. The three remaining goons have their weapons trained on him, but they're looking to Chip, unsure whether they should shoot to kill. Her gaze is focused on Reaper and she approaches cautiously, kneeling next to his heaving form.

"How interesting," she says, though she sounds neither interested nor surprised. She reaches forward to roll him over onto his back. He lets her.

"They call you their greatest _asset_ , you know. I wonder what they'll say when they find out you've turned on them."

A terrible noise tears out of Reaper's throat and he lunges at the omnic, catching her by the torso. They both crash to the ground, the momentum carrying them across the floor, and they roll together. Reaper hooks his fingers into the edges of the metal plate that covers her delicate wiring, pulls. She yelps in his ear, unnatural and synthetic, claws at his searching hand, digs hard metal fingers into his flesh. And when she realises that he isn't going to let go that easily, she grabs his mask. The leather strap rends under pressure and it's torn from his face, clattering to the ground. She claws at his eyes.

The others hesitate. The angle is awkward; Chip is splayed on top of Reaper, obscuring his body. But he's tearing the panel out of her back with a brute strength, undeterred by her scrabbling fingers.

Panicked, one woman raises her gun and fires.

The bullet collides with Chip's torso. It tears through the metal and lodges inside her. She spasms, loosening her grip just enough for Reaper to remove the safety panel, throwing it aside and plunging into her back. He finds her circuits and tears, ripping the wires completely out of their sockets. Chip screams, but her voice cuts out abruptly, replaced with buzzing static. Reaper tosses her writhing body aside and scrambles to his feet.

He's weaponless now, his guns lying where he dropped them across the room. He doesn't have time to dive for them before a man rushes him. Light glints off the knife in his hand and Reaper brings his arms up to shield his face.

The man slashes and the blade cuts through the leather of his coat, scoring his forearm. Reaper barely feels the bite of the blade, consumed with adrenaline and fury. He blocks another wide swing and drops his shoulder, barrelling towards his attacker and knocking him off balance. They topple to the floor together, this time with Reaper on top, back across the room to where his fallen weapons lie. Startled, the man stabs, thrusting the knife up towards Reaper's belly. It pierces the Kevlar vest before he can twist away. He reaches to the side.

His fingers close around the grip of his shotgun and he jerks back, bringing it to the man's face. He pulls the trigger.

The man's head explodes, spraying Reaper with blood and bone and brains, just as another bullet catches him in the arm. Two more blasts from his guns strike the remaining Talon members and they collapse to the ground, lie motionless.

Reaper takes a long, ragged gasp.

Carefully, he climbs off the body beneath him, gets to his feet. His face is wet, and Reaper is startled to realise that he's crying. _Crying_ , vision fogged with tears, strangled sobs wracking his body. But this isn't the time. He tamps down that sorrow, swallows his sadness. He can grieve later.

A little unsteadily, Reaper moves to where his mask lies. He picks it up and fixes it in place again; the leather strap is torn and he has to tie the ends together with a little haphazard knot so that it stays in place. He catches his breath.

Then, he takes a moment to assess himself: the Kevlar he's wearing beneath his shirt had caught the bullets, the impact only winding him; the blade had sliced through his coat a few times and lacerated his forearms; his vest had taken the impact of the stabbing and only the tip of the knife had pierced his belly.

Reaper isn't injured particularly badly after the encounter at all.

_He's not sure if he's disappointed or not._

Satisfied that he is fit to go on, Reaper hefts his shotguns and steps back into the hall.

He's going to kill every last one of them.

 

* * *

 

It's sloppy work, messier than he would ordinarily prefer. He can taste the blood; it invades his nostrils, clings to the back of his throat. It's good. It grounds him.

When the killing is finished, Reaper makes his way back to 76. Jack. Jack's body. It's a long, arduous walk. He knows what he'll find there, but he doesn't want to see it. He doesn't think he can bear to see it.

But he has to. He can't leave him here. He owes Jack that much.

Now that the fury has ebbed, washed away by the blood of the people who did this, he doesn't feel anything at all but that reluctance. It's a curious kind of emptiness, a numbness that runs bone deep. It feels as though all the warmth has gone from inside him, died right there with Jack. Like _he_ died right there with Jack.

Reaper walks through the door. He takes a deep breath. His eyes fall on the body lying prone the floor.

He approaches it very slowly. His step is careful, a little tentative. The linoleum squeaks under his boots. Light from the neon signs outside spills through the blinds, casting strange shadows on the body. Painting it in orange, this time. Orange, red, blue. Orange, red, blue.

He kneels by Jack's body, rolls him over.

Jack is so pale, his face still damp with sweat. But he's warm— _too_ warm. Reaper can feel the heat emanating from his body through his clothes, his jacket. It's not right.

Reaper's heart jumps into his throat and he tears off one of his gloves to feel Jack's throat for a pulse.

It's not hard to find.

Jack's heart is beating wildly, irregular beneath Reaper's touch. But it _can't_ be. It must be a trick of his grief-addled mind; he must be dreaming up the sensation, so unwilling to believe that the man he loves is gone. Jack is long dead, dead as a fucking doorknob. He's _seen_ it happen before, seen people killed in this exact same way.

But those blue eyes crack open, just a little, and Jack _groans_.

Then he lurches forwards and grabs him.

Reaper is stunned for a moment, reeling backwards and sitting heavily on the floor. Jack's eyes are hazy and he can't seem to be able to focus on him. But his grip is tight around Reaper's forearm, fingers digging into the cuts hard enough to sting.

"Are you—" he begins, and pauses, as if he can't seem to find the words. "Are you going to take me to Hell?"

"What?"

"I know I've done terrible things. But I need— I need to see Gabriel. Please, take me to Gabriel. I know you can. I've waited so long. Please, I want to see him again. Just once more."

Now that he's started, Jack can't seem to stop talking, quick and stammering and unintelligible. Reaper is still too shocked to really listen, still struggling to comprehend what has just happened.

But Jack is alive.

_Jack is alive._

He's sitting here in front of him, breathing and talking and touching. He looks halfway dead, but he's still fucking _alive_. Everything is going to be alright; they'll be together again, just like they were before. Gabriel is never going to let Jack go, not after this. Never again.

But the bite of 76's nails into his wounds brings him back to reality. Jack is very obviously _not okay_. He's sweating buckets, breathing like he's just run a marathon. His pupils are so dilated that the blackness has swallowed up almost all of that bright, crystal clear blue. The overdose may not have killed him yet, but it still might if Reaper doesn't do anything about it.

"Jack."

He's not listening, becoming more and more agitated as he babbles on. Reaper catches him by the chin, forces him to look at him. "Jack," he repeats, "I'm going to pick you up."

He moves to do so, sliding one arm beneath Jack's knees and one around his back, and, very carefully, begins to lift him, but Jack lashes out; he shoves Reaper away with a surprising amount of force, kicks at him, swings a wild, wide punch.

"Don't fucking touch me!" he shouts, voice jumping up an octave. And Jack begins to cry.

Gabriel has seen him cry only a few times before: when he found out that his parents had both died in an accident on the farm; when they had been wed in that tiny chapel deep in the countryside; when they had fought particularly badly one night after a gruelling case.

When Gabriel was shot during the ambush and Jack had begged for his life.

His cries now are nothing like any of those times. He's wheezing, coughing, still trying to shout at him through the tears. 76 hadn't been scared before, when Chip and the others had forced him to take the drug. But he's sure as hell scared now.

Reaper growls and grabs at 76 again, this time not quite so gently. He throws 76 over his shoulder, pins his arms behind his back with one hand. 76 kicks at his chest, writhes in his grip, but Reaper holds fast. He makes for one of the bathrooms that he'd noticed had not been converted into a drug lab earlier.

The door has been left slightly ajar, and Reaper opens it with a swift kick. The bathroom is dilapidated, with only a bathtub, sink and toilet. But it will do.

76 gets dumped in the tub, next to the remains of a wrecked omnic. There's a first aid kit above the sink and Reaper tears it off the wall, begins to rifle through it. It's a standard kit, packed with gauze and bandages, scissors and gloves, tiny tubes of saline and antibacterial solution. Reaper has little medical experience, only the first aid courses he had attended as a detective, but he knows nothing in here will keep Jack from dying of an overdose. And it isn't as though he can call an ambulance here with the massacre he has perpetrated. He's going to have to do the best he possibly can with what he's got. And at the very least, he'll be able to keep 76 from bleeding out.

First order of business: emptying 76's stomach in case any of the drug remains undigested. By now, it's unlikely that any of it is still being absorbed, but Reaper feels helpless and this is all he can think to do.

It'll be too difficult to get 76 across the room to the toilet, so the floor it is. Reaper returns to the tub and tries to manoeuvre him into a better position, but 76 is still upset. He shoves at Reaper's hands, scuttles as far away as he possibly can, which is to say, not very far. "Don't," he says again, but this time his voice is quiet. Pleading. "Please don't take me. I don't want to die."

 _You could have fooled me_ , Reaper thinks.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says instead, in the calm, placating tone one would use to calm a frightened animal. 76 shoves at him again, this time more roughly; Reaper, jostled, drops the first aid kit and its contents scatters across the tiles.

Sighing deeply, Reaper removes his remaining glove and the bone-white mask, letting them both fall to the floor. This isn't how he wanted to do this, to reveal himself to Jack, but as it stands, he can't see any other option. He perches on the edge of the tub and leans over so that he can see his face, can understand that he's _not_ Death or the Grim Reaper or whoever the fuck else he thinks he is. The effect is immediate; 76 stills, his face slackening before he manages a weak smile.

"Gabe. You're here."

He doesn't seem to understand the significance, too out of his mind to realise that _Gabe isn't dead_ , just that he's here, he's here, he's here. 76 hasn't stopped crying, but at least he's calmed down a little.

"It's okay," Reaper says softly, chest tight. "Listen, Jack. I need you to let me help you."

"Okay," comes his response, and Reaper tries once more to haul him over the edge of the tub. This time, he goes willingly. "What are you doing here?"

Reaper gives a little half-hearted shrug. "You took something and I need to make you throw it up. I'm going to put my fingers in your mouth."

"Okay," 76 says again. Reaper takes his jaw in hand and opens his mouth, shoves two fingers inside. He reaches deep, pressing down on his tongue and trying to make him retch. Nothing happens for a few moments, so Reaper forces himself further until he feels 76's throat begin to constrict. He pulls out just in time to avoid the cascade of vomit that spills out of his mouth and onto the floor, splashing onto his boots. When he's finished, 76 coughs and wipes the back of his hand across his face.

"Okay. Good job, sunshine."

76 slumps back against the side of the tub, gazing up at Reaper with a dreamy, far away expression, as if he hadn't just been trying his hardest to break Reaper's ribs. Something in Reaper's chest aches at that look, and he turns away very quickly. Now isn't the time for that.

Stooping, Reaper snatches up a few rolls of bandages that had fallen onto the floor, as well as the dressings, antibacterial solution and the pair of small blunt-nosed scissors. He's going to have to get 76 out of his clothes, which might prove to be a challenge. He tosses the items into the bathtub and inches closer to 76 again, relieved when he isn't pushed away.

Reaper hooks his fingers into the leather of 76's jacket and tries to wrestle him out of it. "I need you to get your clothes off," he says, voice as calm and composed as he can possibly manage. "I gotta bandage you up."

It seems like it takes a Herculean effort, but together they manage to shed both the jacket and the tight compression shirt underneath. Something falls out of the jacket when Reaper throws it aside, and he stoops to look. It's money; six crumpled hundred dollar bills, just shoved into the pocket like 76 has forgotten about it. Perhaps it's the money he took from the dead drug dealer. Reaper pauses, considering what to do with it, before he decides he has bigger concerns right now; he shoves the cash into 76's waistband and surveys his body.

He looks different to how Reaper remembers him—older, of course, the thick chest hair silvering, abdominal muscles losing their definition, new scars mingling with the old—but he still looks so good. For half a moment, Reaper allows himself to wonder whether they will be able to be together again, after this. He wants to relearn Jack's body, remember how he used to feel in his arms. But then his eyes catch on the bullet holes, one in his side and one in his shoulder, and his mind snaps back to the task at hand.

There are no exit wounds for either gunshot, but Reaper doesn't have the means to fish out the bullets. The most he's going to be able to do right now is disinfect, dress and bandage him up. Someone else, someone who is far better equipped and, hopefully, far more skilled will have to do the rest. He wonders if Jack is still in touch with Ana Amari, or perhaps the doctor who used to consult on their cases, Angela Ziegler. Either would be able to patch him up, and _should_ know better than to ask questions. But before they can even think about that, Reaper needs to make sure that 76 survives.

Because Jack dying now is _completely_ out of the question.

Reaper pours a little of the disinfectant liquid onto a wad of cotton bandage and uses that to clean both wounds. 76 hisses away at the contact, but Reaper holds him still with a firm hand on his uninjured shoulder. He's quiet, but agitated, so Reaper speaks to him softly and soothingly, telling him exactly what he's doing, that he's doing well, that he's going to be fine, anything to keep him calm, but he doesn't seem to be listening. Jack won't stop staring at his face.

When he's satisfied that the wounds are clean, he dresses them as quickly as he can. Blood seeps slowly through the dressings to stain the bandages, but there is nothing more that Reaper can do. They're going to have to wait it out, now.

He sits down on the floor by the bathtub with a sigh, only to be reminded of his own injuries as, now that the adrenaline has died down, they begin to throb. There aren't enough materials left from the first aid kit to treat his own wounds, so he will have to make do as is. What's important is that he's taken care of Jack as best he can. What's important is that Jack is still alive. He watches him carefully, studying his pale, clammy face for any sign that things are starting downhill. Or, further downhill than they already are.

They sit like that together for some time, quietly. 76 appears uncomfortable, distressed. But he doesn't say anything, so neither does Reaper. Eventually, 76's eyes slide shut and his breathing turns deep; he's fallen asleep.

It's not until Reaper jerks awake that he realises that he's nodded off, too. After the fighting and the panic, he's exhausted, and sitting here, he finds he can barely keep his eyes open. He glances over to Jack, who is still unconscious in the tub. A jolt runs through him and he jumps to his feet, rushes across the room to make sure that he's still alive—and he's still breathing, calmly now. His heart rate is still high, but it's steadier. He's pale and clammy but, for all intents and purposes, he seems to be _okay_.

Maybe they're through the worst of it.

Jack looks almost peaceful, lying there awkwardly in the tub, despite everything that has happened. The only time Jack was ever peaceful was when he was asleep, and Gabriel used to love looking at him, slack-jawed, eyelids fluttering, as he dreamed. Gabriel is struck by the sudden urge to kiss him, gently, on the mouth.

The urge is quickly stamped out and Reaper turns away. There is nothing more he can do here, he realises. 76 seems to be stable, and besides, there is cleanup to be done yet. He's not accustomed to cleaning up his own messes; Talon has a team who specialises in this, but it's not as if he can call them now, not when it's their own people who have been slaughtered. There are bodies that need to be disposed of, blood and gore to clean from the floors and the walls, pounds of T that need to be destroyed. Reaper needs to get rid of every single item that could connect these apartments to Talon and come up with a plausible explanation as to _what the fuck happened_ to give to his superiors.

And it all needs to be done before someone should happen across the mess.

Reaper allows himself to look at Jack for a moment longer. He wants to stay. He wants to climb into the tub alongside him, hold him in his arms until he wakes. But he has a job to do.

So, despite the ache in his heart, Reaper steps outside and gets to work.

  


* * *

  



End file.
